parents, to splash their faces with cold water and rush out of the house, back to the city and his condominium, his computer and his ironing board. But etiquette was about using beauty and grace to restrain one’s passions. Outer dignity reflected inner peace. “‘Pain’ isn’t the right word. My state of mind is completely under my control, as yours should be.”
Now Edward and Karen stood together, against the stove. “Toby, we saw what happened. On TV. We’re worried about you,” said Karen. “Really quite worried.”
“About me?” There were so many things Toby could say about their house, the contents of their refrigerator, the burned-up car in the driveway, the whole idea of a business, in the twenty-first century, devoted to poor-quality beef slipped into a flour-sprinkled white bun. Karen’s cigarillos. Edward’s impromptu performances of Negro spirituals. The family portraits from the late eighties, in which they represented the Platonic form of Unhappy. He corrected his posture and said none of this. He said, “I’m going to buy you two some groceries.”
In the IGA, after-work singles picked through last year’s Halloween leftovers, many of them speaking cheerlessly into cellphones. None of the brand-name chocolate bars and chips were out yet. Crates of molasses candies, Rockets, lollipops, jujubes, and marshmallow treats were priced to sell, and theyoung citizens of Dollard went through them like runt hyenas looking for a slice of organ.
“Marshmallows. Do they take us for morons?” A slightly taller man in khakis and a nylon jacket with a Tommy Hilfiger logo on the breast stood next to Toby. He was familiar in a misty way, like a backbench politician or the general manager of a lesser sports team. His watch was of the G.I. Joe variety; Toby wondered if, after damning the Halloween candies, the gentleman was planning to dive to the bottom of the St. Lawrence and save a damsel. He did not know whether to reinforce the man’s efforts at geniality with his own remark about the marshmallows. They had not yet made eye contact. The man inhaled and spoke again, his words married to a sigh. “How is your dad?”
Steve Bancroft: former neighbour, industrialist, villain. “He’s home already.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Just an accident.” Toby poked through the Rockets as he debated whether to ask what Steve Bancroft had heard on the street. “He’s absolutely fine. They’re both terrific.”
“Well, isn’t that terrific.”
Brown loafers with tassels. Steve Bancroft was a wealthy man: Why would he choose to diminish his humanity with tassels?
“So, Karen. Karen’s holding up, with the shock?”
“She really couldn’t be better. Thriving, Mr. Bancroft.”
“Tell her I said hello, will you? I’ve been thinking about those hot dog joints of hers.”
“Theirs.”
“Theirs.” He pulled a card out of his pocket. “Pass this on, will you?”
Toby pocketed the card and walked away, toward the cut-flowers section. He had already picked up the fruits and vegetables, but he could not have stood next to Steve Bancroft any longer. A real man, his father’s son, would have at least made a sideways comment about those loafers.
To avoid returning immediately to rue Collingwood, Toby wandered the aisles and played the game he played in bank lineups, in the waiting room at the dentist, and on park benches as the camera operator set up the shot: he appraised the sandals worn with socks, fleece mountain jackets, jeans that did not fit, flip-flops, and sweatpants of his peers. His parents’ generation had done this to America with their pretend revolution and the ensuing after-school specials and desperate self-help philosophies. The inner world was the realm of truth.
The goal of Toby a Gentleman had been to prove the baby boomers wrong, to demonstrate the enduring links between traditional manners and success, between clothes and the soul. Did a man not feel more serious and
Now Edward and Karen stood together, against the stove. “Toby, we saw what happened. On TV. We’re worried about you,” said Karen. “Really quite worried.”
“About me?” There were so many things Toby could say about their house, the contents of their refrigerator, the burned-up car in the driveway, the whole idea of a business, in the twenty-first century, devoted to poor-quality beef slipped into a flour-sprinkled white bun. Karen’s cigarillos. Edward’s impromptu performances of Negro spirituals. The family portraits from the late eighties, in which they represented the Platonic form of Unhappy. He corrected his posture and said none of this. He said, “I’m going to buy you two some groceries.”
In the IGA, after-work singles picked through last year’s Halloween leftovers, many of them speaking cheerlessly into cellphones. None of the brand-name chocolate bars and chips were out yet. Crates of molasses candies, Rockets, lollipops, jujubes, and marshmallow treats were priced to sell, and theyoung citizens of Dollard went through them like runt hyenas looking for a slice of organ.
“Marshmallows. Do they take us for morons?” A slightly taller man in khakis and a nylon jacket with a Tommy Hilfiger logo on the breast stood next to Toby. He was familiar in a misty way, like a backbench politician or the general manager of a lesser sports team. His watch was of the G.I. Joe variety; Toby wondered if, after damning the Halloween candies, the gentleman was planning to dive to the bottom of the St. Lawrence and save a damsel. He did not know whether to reinforce the man’s efforts at geniality with his own remark about the marshmallows. They had not yet made eye contact. The man inhaled and spoke again, his words married to a sigh. “How is your dad?”
Steve Bancroft: former neighbour, industrialist, villain. “He’s home already.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Just an accident.” Toby poked through the Rockets as he debated whether to ask what Steve Bancroft had heard on the street. “He’s absolutely fine. They’re both terrific.”
“Well, isn’t that terrific.”
Brown loafers with tassels. Steve Bancroft was a wealthy man: Why would he choose to diminish his humanity with tassels?
“So, Karen. Karen’s holding up, with the shock?”
“She really couldn’t be better. Thriving, Mr. Bancroft.”
“Tell her I said hello, will you? I’ve been thinking about those hot dog joints of hers.”
“Theirs.”
“Theirs.” He pulled a card out of his pocket. “Pass this on, will you?”
Toby pocketed the card and walked away, toward the cut-flowers section. He had already picked up the fruits and vegetables, but he could not have stood next to Steve Bancroft any longer. A real man, his father’s son, would have at least made a sideways comment about those loafers.
To avoid returning immediately to rue Collingwood, Toby wandered the aisles and played the game he played in bank lineups, in the waiting room at the dentist, and on park benches as the camera operator set up the shot: he appraised the sandals worn with socks, fleece mountain jackets, jeans that did not fit, flip-flops, and sweatpants of his peers. His parents’ generation had done this to America with their pretend revolution and the ensuing after-school specials and desperate self-help philosophies. The inner world was the realm of truth.
The goal of Toby a Gentleman had been to prove the baby boomers wrong, to demonstrate the enduring links between traditional manners and success, between clothes and the soul. Did a man not feel more serious and
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